


From the Darkness

by renegadejaybird (vitious)



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitious/pseuds/renegadejaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't know who he is or how he got there, but he remembers the man that is going to save him, the one that's going to help him fly again. **Indefinite Hiatus**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he first wakes his vision is hazy, blurry, and filled with strange, shifting colors.  There’s no sound, just a strange, garbled background noise, as if he was submerged in water, and it makes him roll his head back and forth in a feeble attempt to clear his senses.  He can  _feel_ at least, something which becomes apparent when his cheek brushes over the fabric of his pillow, the sensation making him jump or, it would have, had he had the strength.  He searched his memory for anything that might have given him a hint as to where he was and why he was there, but it was like his mind was a blank slate; part of him thought that was wrong but he wasn’t certain.  
  
His hearing was returning a little, he can hear shouting, garbled and muffled, before, suddenly, there’s a mask being pressed over his face, something which makes him struggle feebly and he isn’t certain why.  In his mind there are flashes of face paint and pain, the haunting echo of cruel laughter and the smell of blood and garbage.  He remembers Gotham’s night sky bracketed by buildings, remembers hunger pangs and a well-dressed man crouching in front of him and tousling his hair.  He remembers...  However his thoughts begin to scatter, his eyes growing heavy and his senses and mind fogging again.  Mentally he scrambles to hold on to the pieces of his fractured, jumbled mind, but they slip away and, soon, all he knows is blackness again.  
  
\-----  
  
When he woke again it was to the sound of gunfire, his body jolting and eyes snapping open, breathing fast and shallow.  Without even thinking he was moving, yanking cables off of him, pulling needles out of his arms, and climbing off the hospital bed, tumbling to the floor.  Part of him said that that wasn’t right, that there was no way that his arms and legs should barely be able to sustain him, but he shoved himself up anyways, legs trembling.  He moved towards the door, frowning when it was difficult to shove open and slip through, feeling confused when his lungs heaved with the effort; what had happened to him?  
  
Shaking his head he used to wall to steady himself as he walked, eyes wide and breathing labored as he glanced around, feeling oddly out of place; everything looked strange and alien.  Despite that he continued down the hall, shoving a cart out of the way, his mind telling him that it wasn’t right that the halls were so empty, so quiet.  Then, suddenly, the door he was standing across from swung open and a man, one arm wrapped around an older patient, the other a shotgun, burst out, giving him a startled look.  His brows knitted a little, confusion crossing his features, then recognition, apparently frozen in indecision before he quickly glanced at the man he was supporting, then back to him.   
  
“I’ll come back for you.” the man promised, beginning to move down the hall, his eyes glancing between him and the other end of the hall. “Stay there, okay?  I’ll be back!”  
  
He gave a slow nod before he even had time to think about responding, his head moving instinctually, his mind trusting the man that he had supposedly just met.  Shifting a little, feeling exhausted, he leaned back against the cool, tiled wall, just then noticing that his back was bare, causing him to look down at the hospital gown.  He remembered ripped jeans, a red, stained, hooded sweatshirt, worn gloves, and the floor being substantially... closer.  However a name also flit through his mind, his head rolling to stare down the hallway where the man had disappeared, dry lips parting, his voice, barely a croak from disuse.   
  
“J...ohn...?”  
  
\-----  
  
It felt like hours before the man returned for him and, in that time, he had slowly sunk down to the floor.  His body was borderline useless, his muscles barely functioning, his entire body pale and looking malnourished.  Something had happened to him while he had been sleeping, at least that was what his mind was telling him, and he wasn’t certain that his time unconscious had been short.  He was having difficulty dredging up his reasoning, his mind foggy and confused, full of images that didn’t make sense, like snapshots seen through a kaleidoscope, and it made his head throb when he tried to piece things together.  With a soft groan of misery and pain he slowly pulled his too-thin legs to his chest, burying his face between his knees as he continued to wait.  
  
He looked up, the muscles in his neck straining and protesting, when warm hands settled on his shoulders, his unfocused eyes struggling to take in the face of the man from before.  It was obvious that the man that his mind called ‘John’ was happy, his lips twitching a little as he forced himself not to smile.  Slowly his head tilted as he stared at ‘John’, probably looking as tired and confused as felt even as the man’s hands gently rubbing his shoulders, the touch soothing and making his eyes flutter a little in pleasure.  
  
“Jason?” ‘John’s’ voice was soft, but it still made him flinch; it sounded loud in the silence of the hospital.   
  
“W...who...?” it hurt to talk, the pain making him grimace.   
  
“John.  My name’s John Blake.  We were in the orphanage together.” he murmured before moving to slip his arm around his shoulders, beginning to slowly hoist him to his feet. “I...  They said you were dead.”   
  
“I... mem... ber...” he managed, grimacing again, leaning heavily on the other man as he was lifted to his feet.   
  
“You remember your name?”   
  
“N...o...  Y...ou...”   
  
“My name?”   
  
Giving a nod, the boy that was apparently known as Jason slowly began to shuffle down the hall with John’s assistance, each step difficult and making his muscles burn.  He couldn’t tell how long it was before they made it to a spare room, one full of medicines, equipment, and sets of surgical scrubs, a pair of which John grabbed and slowly began to help him into.  It was a long process, one which left his face burning and his limbs trembling from exertion, but they eventually got him clothed, then back out the door.  They took the elevator, the lurch of motion nearly making Jason sick, leaving him looking a little ill when they exited onto the bottom floor, heading past the medical staff who didn’t even spare them a passing glance, then out the front doors and towards a parked car.  
  
It was an ordeal to get him settled into the vehicle, to get him buckled in and ready to go, and the entire time John kept glancing up and down the streets as if he was expecting something to happen.  There were explosions in the distance, gunfire, and it made memories flash through his mind, making him grit his teeth, eyes clenched shut.  Despite the fact that he had been conscious for a while, everything still felt foggy, strange, as if he was in a world in which he didn’t belong.  Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be alive, wasn’t supposed to wake up and come back, or maybe his mind simply was too broken to be put back together again.   
  
“Things are a little crazy, Jason, but I’ll take care of you?  I’ll take care of you, little Jaybird.” John reassured as he slid behind the wheel of the car, his door slamming shut as he shifted out of park and began to drive. “You may not remember, but you used to get me in an out of trouble all the time.  Now I guess it’s my turn.”   
  
Jason wasn’t certain if the other man was expecting an answer but the nickname made him suck in a breath, warmth rising in his chest.  He remembered snapshots of laughter, of the sign of a building, of a younger version of John, of games and nicknames and childhood fantasies.  It was as if his mind had been a strong box and that the other man’s words had been the key to begin opening it and sorting out what was inside; there was pain buried in there, but he focused on the bright thoughts, the happiness.  
  
“R...Robin.” he murmured, throat still painful, but it would get better, he thought, with use.   
  
“You remember!” John cried, looking over at him, looking delighted for a moment before he sobered, eyes hooding. “I wish... I’d found you when things were better.  Gotham isn’t a great place right now.”   
  
Jason stared at the other man for a long moment before rolling his head, glancing out the window, noticing smoke, noticing panic on people’s face.  Many were scrambling to load items into cars, were working to load themselves in with their belongings, a frenzied air about them.  However he felt oddly detached from it all, his eyes fluttering as he struggled to stay away; he was exhausted, thirsty, and hungry, his body too weak from disuse for as much exertion as he’d put it through.   
  
“You must’ve been in and out of a coma for eight years.” John finally added, his fingers flexing around the steering wheel. “That... Something bad happened...  You ran away and... Never came back.  We all thought you never would.”   
  
His breath froze in his lungs, everything suddenly falling together, one of his hands slowly lifting to touch the back of his head, feeling scar tissue hidden beneath hair.  He was taller because he wasn’t young anymore, wasn’t who he’d been when whatever had put him in the hospital had happened, and it explained why he was so weak; he was lucky he woke up at all.  Lowering his hand he noticed the white tag that was wrapped around his wrist, tilting his hand slightly to look at the name, ‘John Doe’ printed neatly across the plastic.   
  
Nobody had known who he was, nobody knew who to contact, nobody had claimed him, everyone had simply moved on while he was half-dead in a hospital bed.  For some reason the thought made him angry, a face flashing before his eyes, the man clad in an expensive suit, his hair slicked back.  His mind remembered the feel of the man’s large hands tousling his hair, murmuring promises of things to come, of a new life, new hope.  He swallowed hard even as his eyes narrowed, his hands curling into weak fists as he moved to stare out the window again.   
  
_Why didn’t you find me...?  Why did you leave me...?_   His mind struggled for a moment before, suddenly, it provided a name.  _...Bruce...? _


	2. Chapter 2

John took him in, telling him in hushed tone about Bane, about Batman, about terror and imminent destruction.  He spoke of being a cop, of helping the Commissioner, of his hopes that Batman would return, that the Dark Knight would return and save him.  All of this went on while Jason pushed himself physically, getting his body back to where it could function again, progressing quickly from lifting soup cans to actually lifting real weights.  Jason pushed himself like a man possessed, every day leaving him exhausted but feeling good, feeling as if he was slowly regaining the life that had been stolen from him.  
  
There had been a lot of firsts for him with John, lots of skills he had to relearn and new vocabulary as well.  Technology had changed rapidly during the time in which he’d been in a coma, leaving him a little bewildered at how advanced it was now.  He would have said that it felt like he’d time traveled, but, technically, he kind of had, at least his mind had.    
  
However skills and knowledge weren’t the only things that had changed or been damaged and, when he’d seen himself in the mirror for the first time he’d stumbled backwards, John’s arm reaching out to support him.  John had shaved him and given him a haircut, leaving it cut short, a patch of white dangling down onto his forehead.  When he’d reached up to touch it, frowning in confusion, John had explained that it was most likely due to head trauma, the follicles that produced the color in his hair having been damaged in that area the most.  
  
He was taller, much taller, and his shoulders broader, something that made him lift his hands in front of his face, turning them over, looking puzzled.  There were strange scars on his back, something he noticed when he turned, though they were faded and almost invisible in spots.  For some reason they made him immediately think burns, think of heat and blisters and pain, but when he thought about the why behind that, his mind came up blank; what had put him in a coma was still a mystery.  John had offered to help him discover what had happened to him as soon as things settled, as soon as the anarchy that had settled over Gotham had calmed, but Jason wondered if that would ever happen.  
  
Bane’s presence in the city was like an ever-looming shadow, something that made the streets barren during the day, the tension and silence making Jason’s jaw clench, made him push his body harder.  It had been a little over a month and, while he was still far too thin for his frame, muscles were beginning to show, clothing was beginning to sag less when he wore it, and he could do most things other than heavy lifting without assistance.  He had a great deal of time on his hands considering that a majority of it was spent without John who was assisting the police where he could, trying to uproot Bane, get him out of Gotham.  However when he is there John takes care of him, teaches him to cook, how to hold a gun and shoot, how to stitch wounds shut, things that would be important in the coming months, but Jason cherishes the closeness more than the skills.     
  
Jason also enjoys the stories, tales of pranks and games, of mutual comfort and friendship.  John’s words tug at his memory, dredging up foggy images that slowly begin to solidify during their time together, filling up the empty void that had been Jason’s memory.  However his time after the orphanage, after he ran away, after he took to the streets remain a mystery, most of their later years together having to be filled in by the other man.  Part of him wondered if, maybe, it was better that way, better to have a new, fresh start than to pick up the pieces of an old life that may or may not have been ideal.  
  
During the long, lonely days he spent either working out, cleaning, or watching the movies he’d missed, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that he was scared.  To him, he’d never been a teenager, never lived through the years of growing up, never got the chance to mature and grow, thus he had to research and squirm uncomfortably while his guardian was away.  He didn’t want John to see him fumbling over things like sex, and maturity, gore and blood, not when Gotham was on the verge of collapse and violence as everywhere.  There was no time for Jason to be a child but, then again, he supposed that there never had been, not when his mother had died when he was so young and who knew where his father had gone.  However he also knew that without those precious years of being in society, he’d also been given a chance to view things differently, in way that he knew perplexed John to a degree, especially when he asked strange questions that made the other man uncomfortable.  
  
“Y’know… I don’t get this.” Jason murmured, frowning at the television before twisting his head to look back at John.   
  
“Hmm?” John’s voice is sleepy, distracted as he eats and skims over a few crinkled documents.   
  
“There’s a lot of fucking weird hate in these things, y’know?”   
  
John pauses and looks over at him, his expression shifting into that weary look that’s a mixture of envy and awe, tinged with a hint of pity. “I keep forgetting that you didn’t experience things like that.”  
  
Jason snorts and lifts the remote, turning off the television before moving to the table, slipping into the rickety, wooden chair across from the other man. “I wished you’d forget things like my messes and the fact that I need to study.”   
  
“Well, you’re a slob and you do need to read up.  You’ve got years to catch up on—”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just, I dunno.  We could be dead in a few months.  I should be doing other things.”   
  
“There’s not much to do, Jay.”  
  
“Then why are you gone so often?”   
  
John goes still and just looks at him, stares in the way that makes Jason nervous but also makes him feel young, makes him feel stupid, because he can see how fast the thoughts are jumping through the other man’s mind.  He knows that John is an amazing detective _because_ of those searching looks, the ones that map every reaction, every pull of muscle over bone, every slight inflection in his voice.  Part of him wonders how much the other man sees, what tells in his body and his eyes, things Jason hasn’t taught to lie yet, show him.    
  
After only a few heartbeats John sighs and shakes his head. “…I’m part of the resistance.  I’m trying to save Gotham.”   
  
“What, you’re just gonna do it alone?” Jason countered, eyes immediately narrowed.   
  
“Oh, no.  We are not having this conversation.”  
  
“Fuck you.” his eyes narrowed and his hands gripped the edge of the table as he leaned forward. “You could get shot in the head one day and not come back.”   
  
“Yeah, I could.” John answered softly, his eyes suddenly hard, stubborn, determined. “I could also get hit by a car.  Jay, this city needs saving, even if it means dying.”  
  
Jason stared at the other man for a long moment, anger fading in favor of far more familiar uncertainty and fear.  All he had left after waking up, alone, in a hospital bed was John and he wasn’t certain how he’d survive without the other man in his life.  Sure, he was fairly certain that he could probably steal food to survive and manage to find some form of shelter, but for what purpose?  He had no family, no friends, and was in a world that felt alien to him, one that had grown older while his mind was in a veritable stasis.   
  
“What about me?” Jason questioned, his voice small, eyes falling to the table; he never felt twenty three, still felt like the child he’d fallen into the coma as.  
  
“Jay.” his eyes flit up to look at the other man, shoulders slumping a little as he hesitantly reached out to gently pry his fingers from the table. “I can’t make promises.  I’m a realist like that, but I’m always careful, okay?  I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?”   
  
“Guess so.” Jason muttered, the petulant tone in his voice making him wince; he was supposed to be growing up to fit his age, but it was difficult. “Sorry, yeah, you’re right.  You don’t need this shit from me.”  
  
John smiled, the look warm and fond in a way that made Jason’s chest tighten. “Times’re pretty shitty.  I get it.  We’ll get Gotham back, though.  I know it.  We’re all she’s got, but we’ll make it happen.”  
  
That gave the younger man opportunity to ask the question that had been itching in the back of his mind. “What about Batman?”  
  
Jason could practically see the determination, certainty and optimism bleed out of the other man’s eyes, his expression falling as he looked away.  That look immediately told him volumes, making him glance aside and regret asking the question immediately.  Something had obviously happened to the vigilante while he’d been unconscious, something which meant that he wasn’t there to save the city.  A small part of him that was still young, that still believed in heroes died, replaced by something colder, harsher, and he briefly wondered if this was what it took to ‘grow up’.  
  
“I don’t know.” John admitted after a few moments, shaking his head. “Maybe he’ll come back, but I just don’t know.”   
  
“He has to.” Jason replied, feeling young and foolish.   
  
When the other man reached out and gently pat his arm, he felt like he was back in the orphanage, full of fake smiles and false hope. “One day, maybe, he will.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jason normally doesn’t have much to fear from dreams, not when John is there to wake him, not when his memory is so full of holes and things that don’t make sense.  However, tonight his dreams are vivid, sharp, and he tastes acidic fear on his tongue, along with iron, the smell of gasoline so potent it makes him gag.  He’s in a pool of his own blood and the pain is so intense that it makes him wish that he could just wake up, that he could escape the nightmare.  There’s laughter, cruel and loud, echoing all around him, along with the sound of gunshots and the ring of metal on concrete.  Suddenly there’s heat, something that makes him let out a pathetic sound and attempt to crawl away, trying to escape from the pain and the horror, the smell of burning flesh and the screams of the dying.  A strong hand grabs his ankle and the laughter grows louder. Terror claws at his gut, his hands scrambling to pull him away from the inevitable before—  
  
With a gasp he sits up in bed, his eyes wide and wild, his heart hammering in his chest as he struggles to get his breathing back under control.  After a few moments he notes that there’s a hand on his arm, gentle and comforting, and turns his head to stare at the man sitting next to him.  John’s eyes are narrow, focused, roaming over his face, taking in the little tells that Jason knows tell the police officer all about his current state of mind.  Really the worry should have irritated him after the months they’d lived together, but after such a horrific nightmare it was good to have someone friendly close by.  
  
“Bad dream?” John questioned softly once he had the other man’s attention.   
  
Jason gave a quick nod, letting out a shaky breath, before he spoke. “I think… It was a memory.”   
  
“Memory of what?” John’s brows furrowed and he leaned a little closer, his hand never leaving Jason’s upper arm.   
  
“How I ended up in the hospital.”  
  
With a quick shake of his head, Jason shoved the sheets aside and climbed to his feet, raking his fingers through his hair as he headed for the bathroom.  There were no footsteps behind him, telling him that John was giving him the space he needed, like he always did and, suddenly, it frustrated him.  How could the other man be so calm and docile about everything?  He wanted more than just sad, cautious looks and forced calm, wanted to see a real reaction on the other man’s face for once instead of what he thought he needed.  After months of being each other’s support system, Jason was beginning to realize that, really, the only person receiving any support at all was him; John never leaned on him for anything.   
  
Once in the bathroom he braced his hands on the porcelain of the sink, staring down at the drain, not wanting to look at the dark circles under his eyes, at the face that didn’t belong to him yet did.  He wished that he’d stayed in a coma, oblivious, that maybe in the chaos he’d been taken off life support on accident and died.  He was tired of constantly fighting who he was and what he was supposed to be, tired of living in a world of unknowns, and tired of living with the fact that nearly a third of his life had been ripped away by a cackling maniac.  
  
Slowly he looked up, staring at his reflection, at his square jaw and more defined cheekbones, noting how unhealthy he still looked even after months; he was still barely able to function like a normal person, let alone do anything significant to help anyone.  Then there was that streak of white, that unruly patch of hair that always hung in his eyes, that flash of brightness interrupting the black of his hair, further proof that he’d been given a shitty deal.  His eyes had changed, lightened a little, from their old aquamarine to that stereotypical aquatic blue-green of sea waters that tourism pamphlets like to print on their cover.  Everything about him was different, yet inside he was a child, though he found that his growing frustration and anger were shining a new light onto how he should act.  
  
There was a gentle knocking on the door that made Jason’s head whip around, his eyes wide and wild before he relaxed as John’s voice, gentle and calm, filtered through the wood.  “Jay, you okay in there?”   
  
Every time John used that name it felt like something twisted in his chest and he wasn’t sure why. “…Not really.”   
  
“You need to talk?” John’s voice is steady, paternal, something that makes Jason’s eyes narrow.   
  
“Not especially.” Jason muttered, fingers reaching out to trace his features in the mirror; he wasn’t a child, he was a man, and he had to be one. “Got to start… Shouldering this shit myself sometime.”   
  
“Jay… You don’t—”   
  
“I do.  You don’t need help, I don’t need help.”   
  
There’s a long moment of silence before John speaks again, his voice weary and raw. “I never said I didn’t need help, Jay.”   
  
Jason stares at his reflection, his hands clenching around the edge of the sink. “Why don’t you want me to help you?”   
  
“I don’t think anyone can help me at this point, Jay.” John’s laugh is bitter and brittle and there’s the sound of fabric sliding down the door; he didn’t want to think that the other man had sunk to the floor. “I think we’re going to die like this.”   
  
Jason turns, moving to the door, seized by a sudden urge to see the other man, only to freeze with his hand on the doorknob. “We’re not going to die.”   
  
Another soft laugh, this one more muffled than the last. “How can you believe that?”   
  
“I just do.”   
  
“And you think you don’t help me.”   
  
Realization came like a kick to the chest; John was using his _hope_ , his naive belief that everything was going to work out and that help would come.  Shoulders slumping a little, Jason slowly opened the door, staring down at the man sitting on the floor in front of it, his knees drawn up to his chest.  John’s head twisted to look at him, looking tired and unwilling to move for the moment, something that made Jason sigh and sink down next to him.  John offered him a weary smile, moving to lean against him a little; even as thin as Jason still was he was still built bigger and taller than John.   
  
“We just gonna sit here for the rest of the night then?” Jason questioned softly, resisting the urge to wrap an arm around the other man like they did when they were young; those were happier times, better times.   
  
“Sounds like a good time.” John mused, lips curving up in a smile.   
  
“To you maybe.” Jason muttered, offering a hesitant smile in return, noting the way John’s smile slowly faded and his eyes scanned his features.   
  
“It’s nice though.” John murmured, glancing away, towards the tiny bedroom. “Been alone for too long, maybe.  Probably should have gotten a roommate sooner.”   
  
“Look, if you—”   
  
“I know, it’s weird and totally inappropriate I just—”   
  
“I was gonna say, if you need the contact, I’m cool with it.” Jason murmured, staring at the other man. “If we really are going to die, which I don’t believe by the way, maybe you should grow a set and admit you want something, huh?”  
  
John stared at him with wide eyes for a moment before a small, fond smile curved his lips. “…Maybe.”  
  
“Does this mean we can get off the floor?”   
  
John laughs and climbs to his feet, offering Jason a hand up which the other man gladly accepted. “I guess so.”   
  
“Good cus I was about to leave you there.” Jason teased, a smirk coming easily to his lips, feeling familiar.   
  
John rolled his eyes, walking backwards towards the bedroom. “You only like me cus of my bed.”   
  
“It’s a nice bed.” Jason agreed, shoving at the detective’s shoulders. “Come on.  About to pass out here.”   
  
John’s expression quickly morphed into one of concern, looking the other man up and down. “You’re still weak from the coma.  I keep forgetting—”   
  
“Good.  Forget more.  I know I don’t want to remember it.” Jason muttered, moving to the bad and sliding beneath the covers.   
  
John stared at him, suddenly looking awkward. “So… How do we do this?”   
  
Jason’s brows furrowed in confusion.  “Dude, we used to do this all the time, what the hell?”  
  
“Jason we were _kids_ , we’re adults now and…  Well, it’s just…”   
  
“Is this that whole homophobia thing?”   
  
“What?!” John practically squawked, heat rushing to his cheeks. “I’m not— I mean how can I be— That’s not what this is.”  
  
“Not sure I like this whole adulthood thing if I can’t even hug someone when they need it.” Jason grumbled, rolling his eyes.   
  
“I just, I mean—”  
  
“Is this a male ego thing?  Seriously me and my old friends used to do this for warmth all the time on the streets.  What?  You think I’m gonna judge you for it?”     
  
John sighed and held up his hands in surrender, hesitating a moment before sliding into the bed next to Jason.  He slid beneath the other man’s raised arm, averting his eyes even as the arm, still far too slender, lowered, wrapping around him casually.  It was warm and less awkward than John had imagined, and the other man’s eyes were already shut, apparently paying no mind to how close they were, how Jason’s breath washed across the detective’s forehead.  However it also gave John to look, really look, at the man his friend had become, noting that Jason’s face didn’t change much during sleep expect that his jaw looked a little less sharp.   
  
When John had found out that his friend had gone missing all those years ago he’d panicked, constantly checking on the status of the search but, after over a year, he’d given up.  While they hadn’t seemed close, he’d always remembered Jason fondly, used his cheerful nature and words to keep him going even when things got bad.  Jason had been what made him want to join the force, made him want to make sure that the streets of Gotham were kept as safe as they could be.  In retrospect he realized that, most likely, his friend had really been his first crush, the first of few; after he’d joined the GCPD it had been as if he’d married his job, throwing his everything into it.  
  
Now his friend was back, spared the horribly awkward high school years and most of the emotionally draining years he might have spent on the streets.  There was still a few traces of Jason the unruly street punk there, but there was none of the world-weariness that John possessed, something which the detective envied a little.  However, as fucked up as it was, it was also what drew him back to Jason, that dredged up memories of warmth, laughter, and comfort.  Back at the orphanage Jason had seemed big and strong, tough in a way John had never been, so he’d looked up to him just like everyone else.  Perhaps that was why he still looked to him for strength, why his drive had simply strengthened upon finding his long-lost friend.  However as his hand reached up, absently toying with the white chunk in the other man’s bangs, he had to wonder if it was because of another reason that he was simply too frightened to admit.

**Author's Note:**

> This was... Random. Very random. I hope you like where it's going. It's a bit... Strange, but I would love you all if you stuck around.


End file.
